


My Graceless Heart

by hotchoco195



Series: Bedroom Hymns [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sherlock, Brotherhood, Caring Mycroft, Drug Abuse, Feels, First Time, Guilt, Incest, Love, M/M, Possibly mutual dub con?, Post-His Last Vow, all the feels, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's latest plan to get Moriarty involves taking enough drugs to think like him. Mycroft just wants to make it better. He doesn't expect to get pulled into something worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Graceless Heart

Mycroft unlocked the multiple deadbolts on his front door, quickly stepping inside. He hung his umbrella and coat on the hall stand and went through the soothing routine of locking up again one click after another, letting each thud shove a little more of his long day out of his head. With the drama of Magnussen’s death and Moriarty’s broadcast he hadn’t made it home before eleven all week, and he desperately needed to sit by his fire with a warm brandy and lose himself in nothing for a few hours.

He walked into the library and flicked on a lamp, crossing to his record player. He set the needle gently, opening the decanter on his sideboard as the first notes flowed out.

“Pour one for me, would you? I think this is going to be a very trying conversation.”

Mycroft spun, glass in hand. A figure sat in his armchair, the dim light casting heavy shadows along the curve of his profile, but those long limbs were too familiar to be mistaken no matter how dark it was.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherlock tipped his head. “My questions take precedence tonight, Mycroft.”

“Your questions?”

“Yes. Such as, how long have you known Moriarty was alive?”

The statesman sighed and set his glass back down still empty. “Does it matter? He hasn’t gone near you or John.”

“ _How long?_ ”

Mycroft drew himself up. “Fifteen months.”

Sherlock laughed, head resting back against the chair. “So that’s why you ‘rescued me’ in Serbia, hmm? Not because you needed me here but because you knew I was running around Europe cleaning up the supposed dregs of an organisation that was actually alive and well. You knew everything I did was for nothing.”

_(You have been busy, haven’t you? Quite the busy little bee.)_

“Not for nothing, Sherlock. You put a lot of dangerous people behind bars.”

 “And he will just find new ones!” Sherlock exploded out of his seat, “Moriarty’s web will never be destroyed until he is gone for good.”

“I could not tell you to return without arousing your suspicion.”

“Oh no, I see that. You kept him up your sleeve until you had a use for him, just as you’ve always done with me.”

“Which worked in your benefit, didn’t it? If I hadn’t had that tape leaked you’d be heading for a looming expiration date!”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t try to tell me you did this for me, Mycroft. You never do anything completely selfless.”

The older Holmes shrugged. “Think what you like.”

They were quiet for a moment, Sherlock watching him carefully. “If I hadn’t killed Magnussen, when were you planning to tell me?”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “When it suited.”

“Suited who?”

“I would suggest you not ask things you don’t want to know the answers to.”

“You can’t toy with people’s lives like that.”

“And why not? I have been doing it my whole life. So have you – you proposed marriage to gain entrance into an office!”

 

Sherlock looked perhaps a touch remorseful before it was replaced with the same anger. “You shouldn’t keep things from me at least. I’m your brother.”

“Which means I should tell you less than anyone. I know what you’re like, remember. I wasn’t going to set you on Moriarty’s trail againafter last time.”

_(Your loss would break my heart_

_~~What the hell am I supposed to say to that?)~~ _

“I can handle Moriarty. We ran rings around him.”

“Did we?” Mycroft smiled joylessly, “It seems we made a few mistakes.”

“This time I’ll make sure.”

“Is that your new solution to every problem?” Mycroft scowled, “I cannot keep producing martyrs to save your skin, Sherlock. If you slip again once, just once-”

“You’ll what, Mycroft? Ship me off to slaughter? Disown me? Go ahead. I don’t regret Magnussen, not for a second. If I have to do the same for Moriarty, I will.”

_(Oh Sherlock, what have you done?)_

“There is always an alternative, Sherlock.”

 “No, that’s your problem. You think you can find a way out no matter what. You think if you make enough contingency plans you can decide the outcome of anything but Moriarty is too unpredictable. He won’t follow the pattern you expect.”

“Then we simply force him to do so.”

“You _can’t_ , Mycroft, that’s what I’m saying! He can’t be controlled!”

“I have managed to juggle far more difficult variables in my time, Sherlock.”

“James Moriarty is more dangerous than any opponent either of us has ever faced put together. He is insane.”

“The same’s been said about you more than once.”

Sherlock eyed him with exasperation. The light caught on his pale irises as he bit his lip and Mycroft clenched his jaw with sudden realisation.

“Oh for god’s sake - you’re high.”

He shrugged. “I needed to get as close to Moriarty’s state of mind as possible.”

“This is not the solution.”

“I am fine.” he spat.

“You are using again, Sherlock, and that is never fine.”

“It’s temporary.”

“Is it? I am certain that is the oldest line in the addict’s book.”

His brother scoffed, chuckling darkly. “You think I’m a typical addict? Or a typical anything?”

“Yes, Sherlock. You may have rather unique reasons to keep going back but the chemicals produce the same effects and cravings as they do for everyone else.”

He shot out of his chair with a snarl. “I wouldn’t even have to be using if you hadn’t kept Moriarty from me!”

 

Mycroft inhaled with a whistle, trying to keep the alarm off his face. “Do not suggest you were driven to these measures through any reticence on my part. You are not working to a deadline, and whether I had told you long ago or never does not impact your decision to let yourself relapse again.”

Sherlock gave him a fierce glower, running his tongue along his front teeth, and Mycroft took a hesitant breath. There was no John here to step in if he pushed Sherlock over the line and they’d proven more than once that the younger Holmes always came out on top if things got physical.

_(Brother mine, don’t appal me ~~when I’m high~~.)_

“Don’t you ever get tired of being so sanctimonious? So untouchable?” Sherlock hissed, stepping closer.

“I know it delights you to cast me as the villain but I am not your enemy.”

The detective closed the gap between them faster than Mycroft anticipated, his back complaining loudly as they slammed into the sideboard, Sherlock pressing him against the edge painfully.

“Are you sure?”

The statesman took a breath and rested his palms gently against the restraining arms. “Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

“Does it frighten you, Mycroft?” he tilted his head, eyes raking over his brother’s face with an amused gleam, “The savagery I am capable of? Does it interfere with your perfectly formed world order?”

“You are not Moriarty. This is just the drug.” He said firmly.

“I wasn’t on anything when I shot Magnussen.”

_(Merry Christmas!)_

“That was, I am led to believe, under dire circumstances. It is regrettable but it does not make you the kind of monster you’re hunting.”

“I think you’ve always been afraid of me, even when we were children. I don’t follow the rules, I don’t care for appearances. You can’t make me behave like you and it’s terrifying, because I’m the only one who can get inside your head.”

“No matter what has been said in the past, I don’t think of you as a threat. I only care for your wellbeing.”

“What if this is it?” Sherlock crowded closer, face almost touching Mycroft’s, “What if this is the best it gets for me?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe it’s time to get on board with everyone else. They all seem to think I can’t help myself.”

“If I thought for one moment you were a danger to anyone who didn’t deserve it, I would have let them lock you up.”

Sherlock scowled and searched his face for something, and Mycroft could see how ragged the line was between Sherlock’s own self and the crazed version he’d conjured up for his work, the madman persona only reinforced by the cocaine. There was a brightness to those pale blue eyes that didn’t belong there, not even when his brother was in one of his usual tempers, not even when he was in the darkest grips of addiction. It was like he’d handed over the reins to someone that wasn’t entirely Jim and wasn’t entirely Sherlock, and the combination was unknown and precarious. Mycroft needed to defuse the situation, or at least get some space to think.

 

“Sherlock, what can I do for you right now?”

“I do not require your assistance.”

“Forget Moriarty for the moment. What can I do for _you?_ ”

Sherlock considered him and licked his lip, hands sliding down Mycroft’s shoulders until they slipped through the gaps under his arms and landed on the cabinet.

“You really want to help me, Mikey? And not just with lectures and rehab and spying?”

“Tell me what you need and I’ll do what I can.”

“You could relax for once. Watching you curl your lip is giving me a pounding headache.”

“I’m not curling my lip at you.” He protested before realising antagonising the detective wasn’t the smartest move.

“Oh, so you’re not disgusted with my weakness? Not wondering what happened to poor little Sherlock, who was so sweet and so adoring and so easy to manipulate?”

“You do not disgust me, Sherly.” He said softly, truly saddened both by the contempt in his brother’s voice and the memory of that boy who’d been more open, innocent, more able to care.

“Mikey,” he leaned in, lips almost touching his ear, “Don’t disappoint me. I am a murderer, brother. I should disgust you.”

Mycroft decided in that moment that for all his social awkwardness and bad grace, Sherlock could seduce the devil if he wanted to. His voice carried a weight that impressed even Mycroft, and he was used to dealing with far more powerful people.

“You are Sherlock. Nothing about that has changed.” He said softly.

The younger Holmes considered him critically and straightened, stepping back. He turned on his heel and stalked out, throwing open Mycroft’s bolts in a rush. The other man hurried into the hall just as he got the door open.

 _(There will always come a time when we need Sherlock Holmes_.)

“What are you going to do?”

“What you brought me back to do. I’m going to stop him.”

The door slammed shut and Mycroft sighed. He was going to need to upgrade his security again. And he needed to make a call to a certain Dr Watson about keeping a better eye on his brother.

*****

“Mycroft ‘olmes?”

He frowned. Why did that voice seem familiar? Of course, it was the boy Sherlock had brought to Christmas – the chemist.

“Mr Wiggins. I trust you have not called to apologise for sedating me?”

“Uhhh...no. It’s ya bruvver.”

“What about him?” Mycroft sat up. John should have been watching Sherlock, and he’d ordered Lestrade to check in and ‘help’ look for Moriarty. Between the two of them he should have been fine, even if he was using – and Mycroft couldn’t see John allowing that to continue.

“He’s gone bonkers.”

“Define ‘bonkers’.”

“I ‘fink it’s better if you come see for yourself. We’re at Baker Street.”

Mycroft sighed. “There are better people for this, people Sherlock doesn’t actively despise right now.”

“I ‘fink it’s better if it’s you, sir.”

“Very well. I shall be there shortly.”

He hung up and called his driver, hurriedly putting his things away. By the time he got to the kerb the car was waiting, and Mycroft slid in with a grateful thought that at least Baker Street wasn’t that far. Wiggins was waiting on the front stoop when he got there, looking dejected in a huge puffy jacket.

“Shall I wait, sir?” his driver asked.

“Best not. This may take some time.” Mycroft smiled grimly, climbing out.

“Mr ‘olmes, sir.” Wiggins jumped up.

“Yes. What’s the problem?”

“He kicked me out, sir. Had a proper tantrum, ‘e did.”

“I suppose he’s under the influence?”

Bill looked away guiltily. “A bit. I been dosin’ him myself, small amounts.”

“Alright. Thank you for your call but I’ll take it from here.”

The other man nodded and scuttled away as Mycroft straightened the door knocker and let himself in. There was no one in the hall and he thought briefly about asking Mrs Hudson if she’d heard or seen anything strange before deciding it wasn’t worth the conversation. He continued upstairs to 221B, pushing open the lounge room door slowly.

“I told you to get out, Wiggins!” Sherlock snapped from the couch before realising who it was, “Oh. What are you doing here?”

Mycroft couldn’t answer, too busy staring at the room. Every available surface was covered in overlapping layers of paper, maps, newspaper clippings, printouts and photos. Some had arrows drawn across them to link to others, some had been ruthlessly scratched out. They were everywhere: walls, ceiling, tables, shelves – _everywhere_. Sherlock was sprawled over the couch in old blue skinny jeans Mycroft didn’t recognise and an open white shirt spotted with blood in the elbow crease. He looked as manic as he had that night at Mycroft’s, but there was something else too. Sherlock looked exhausted.

_(Here be dragons.)_

 

“What’s all this?”

He sat up, shaking out his tangled curls. “My hunt. We’re getting closer, Mycroft. I’ve narrowed it down to five safehouses.”

“Really?” he arched a brow. It was fairly impressive – when they’d snatched Jim for questioning last time, it had taken Mycroft’s people eight months to lure him to a fake meeting. Sherlock had a list of possible locations after only two weeks.

“My homeless network should get it down to three within a day or so.” The brunette tapped a piece of paper that had strange algorithms running in columns across it.

“And were you planning to share this information with the police?”

Sherlock scoffed. “What would they do with it?”

“With me then?”

He looked over his shoulder warily, eyes slightly unfocused. “Eventually.”

“Eventually? When, Sherlock? When you were single-handedly beating down his door?”

He shrugged. “Eventually.”

“Alright. You’ve done wonderful work, but I can see it’s taking its toll. It’s time to let me take over, Sherlock.”

“What makes you think you can swoop in and take this away from me now?” Sherlock scowled, and Mycroft had to remind himself not to get the detective too riled up.

“You need to stop using. It’s served its purpose.”

“We haven’t got him yet.”

“Five houses is a marked improvement on the greater London area. We don’t need you to do this to yourself to catch him.”

“I can handle it.”

Mycroft’s voice was soft. “Are you certain?”

Sherlock eyed him almost guiltily, trailing a toe over the mess on the floor. “I’ve been on longer benders.”

“When you were an addict, yes. But you are not anymore, and I worry-”

“That I’ll fall off the wagon for good?” he sneered, “Thank you for your confidence, Mycroft-”

“I worry that this will hit you harder than you’re used to. I am worried you will make yourself ill, Sherlock. That’s all.”

_(I worry about him. Constantly.)_

He looked a tad stunned that Mycroft wasn’t there to preach at him. His brother pushed the momentary advantage.

“When did you last sleep?”

The younger Holmes shrugged. “I dunno. Ask Wiggins. Where’s he gone?”

“Have you eaten in the past day?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“The past two? Three?”

“Moriarty was more important.”

Mycroft took off his coat, hanging it on the hook. “Right now I don’t give a toss about him. I’m here for you.”

 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose sceptically as Mycroft headed into the kitchen, but he was too curious not to follow. He stood in the doorway and watched his brother attempt to make something from the dribs and drabs in the fridge before settling on a cup of very sweet tea. The kettle boiled in silence as Mycroft rolled up his shirt sleeves and set out the cups, Sherlock watching his every move suspiciously. Mycroft ignored him, pouring in the milk and setting both on the table before taking a seat and looking up at Sherlock expectantly.

_(I’ll be mother.)_

The detective curled his lip but when Mycroft didn’t move except to take a sip, he finally sauntered over and flung himself in a chair. He picked up the tea and blew on the surface, sipping and smacking his lips. Mycroft could see he’d lost weight, but not too much – yet.

“Where’s John?”

“He thought he should lecture me on using so I told him to get stuffed. Apparently he took offence.”

Mycroft raised a brow and Sherlock snorted.

“Oh Mary tried to talk him round, and then weighed in with me too, but she’s got the baby to think of. Neither of them have a lot of time to worry about me right now. Not that they should.”

“And Lestrade?”

“Utterly useless. I told him to get out from underfoot or I’d give him a list of all the officers under his command going at it like rabbits.”

“So it’s just you and your unsavoury friend, is that it?”

He pursed his lips petulantly. “Mrs Hudson brings me tea.”

“Ah, well. Then all your needs are catered for, aren’t they?”

“What are you suggesting, brother?”

“You said you needed to relapse to reach Moriarty. I detested the idea but it seems you have succeeded, so I will bow to your odd brand of wisdom. Cutting yourself off from everyone, however, is a different matter. It’s unhealthy, Sherlock.”

“Since when do you care about other people?” he laughed, “You didn’t have a problem with me being alone before I met John. You’re certainly content having no friends of your own.”

_(I’m not lonely, Sherlock._

_How would you know?)_

“You are not the same person you were before John. When you were an addict, you could look after yourself without help. I am no longer sure that’s the case. You’ve become reliant on the good doctor’s mothering.”

“I didn’t need mothering when I was a _child_ , let alone now.” He glowered over the table, taking another sip.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft reached over and placed a hand on his, “I am concerned for you. Someone has to make sure you don’t waste away.”

“And what, it’s going to be you? You’re not exactly paternal, Mycroft.”

“We are family. I may not have much practice with hands-on care but I will do what is needed.”

“ _Needed_. Don’t I feel special?”

“Sherlock. Please.”

The detective sat back in his chair, fingers tapping the side of the seat aimlessly. “You never say please.”

“I am saying it now.”

He pursed his lips and looked away, sniffing. “Alright. I suppose I’ve done enough to clean up your mess.”

Mycroft let out a breath he felt he’d been holding since he got there. “Thank you. We appreciate the effort. Why don’t you give me a list of the potential locations and I’ll relay them to my team while you clean yourself up, hmm?”

The younger man drew a week-old newspaper and a half-assembled pen towards him and started writing.

 

“Yes. Yes I’m quite sure you can narrow it down the rest of the way. Two tactical teams on standby, but remember we need our element of surprise, so nobody we aren’t certain of. Alright. Thank you, Anthea.”

Mycroft hung up and slipped his phone back into his coat pocket, taking the two empty cups from the table and setting them in the sink. He wandered down the hall to the bathroom and listened for a moment. The shower was still running; he’d give his brother another five minutes before checking if he’d passed out from exhaustion, malnutrition, cocaine or some combination of the three.

He went into the bedroom and sighed at the mess. The bed was unmade but clearly unused, dust settled in spots around the headboard. The contents of Sherlock’s wardrobe had been torn out and splayed over the floor, empty syringes heaped together in the bin. The statesman knelt with a groan and started putting shirts back on hangers, trying to get the place at least a little tidier before Sherlock came in. He’d cleared a path to the bed by the time the water stopped, and when the bathroom door opened a moment later he’d uncovered another square foot of carpet.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes?” he walked to the doorway, smiling patiently.

Sherlock was leaning on the wall, hair still damp and tangled with a towel wrapped around his waist, fingers fidgeting with the light switch absentmindedly. He looked up, sheepish and suddenly very young.

“I do not think it wise to attempt to shave by myself.”

“Ah. Allow me.”

Sherlock withdrew back into the bathroom and Mycroft followed, the brunette perching on the side of the tub. His brother took down the jar of shaving cream, carefully unscrewing it and setting the lid aside as if he was disarming a bomb. Mycroft gently smeared the balm over Sherlock’s stubble-covered chin and cheeks, fingers sliding down the front of his throat. He took the razor and turned on the tap, taking his brother’s face in hand lightly and tilting it in the light.

“Hold still.”

Sherlock threw him a scornful look but Mycroft just ignored it, setting the blade against his skin and clearing the first section with one smooth stroke. He rinsed it in the warm water and moved down, following the sharp angle of Sherlock’s jaw.

_(You’re safe now.)_

In silence the British Government slowly and carefully made his way down the other man’s neck, following the difficult angles of his cheekbones, his movements precise and considered. Sherlock felt almost hollow in his hands, too cold despite his recent shower, too weak and tired.

Mycroft finished the last pass and rinsed the blade, setting it aside as he wet a facecloth. He pressed it against Sherlock’s newly smooth face, wiping off the last stray flecks of shaving cream. Sherlock ran a hand over his skin and have him a half-smile.

“Thank you.”

“I must agree it’s an improvement.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and left the room, Mycroft taking a moment to clean up. When he entered Sherlock’s bedroom the other man was sprawled out over the covers in a pair of long pyjama pants, pale chest bare.

“Do you think you can sleep?”

He shrugged. “Not likely.”

“Perhaps some more tea?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It won’t help.”

Mycroft looked around as if he was going to find a solution somewhere in the room. “What can I do?”

“Will you sit with me?”

Sherlock wriggled over on the bed and Mycroft settled back against the pillows. He folded his hands in his lap and looked down at Sherlock hugging himself tightly, and promised them both it was going to be better after this.

*****

Sherlock was still tossing restlessly when Mycroft nodded off, but when the early morning traffic noise woke him at seven the detective was out cold. Mycroft carefully slid off the edge of the mattress and looked around. If his brother was going cold turkey, he needed to make sure the flat was clean.

He started with the usual hiding places, combing through the lounge and kitchen methodically before he checked the bathroom. He didn’t think Sherlock would violate the sanctity of John’s old rooms by using them to conceal his stash but he checked anyway. You could never be certain with Sherlock.

When he’d found nothing more than a small bag that held faint traces of powder and another sharps bin full of used needles, he took out his phone.

“The Wig.”

“Mr Wiggins,” Mycroft smiled, “I have some questions about Sherlock’s recent usage.”

“Uh, okay. Wot ya wanna know?”

“You were measuring his doses, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“From what? Where was he keeping it?”

“I’ve got it.”

Mycroft blinked. “All of it?”

“Yeah. ‘e said ‘e didn’t wanna be left in charge of it or he’d go off the rails again.”

“I see. So to the best of your knowledge, there are no illicit substances in this flat at present.”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you.”

“Is ‘e...is ‘e okay? I was only givin’ him small hits but ‘e seemed pretty far gone.”

“He will be fine with some rest. Thank you for your concern, and your watchfulness.”

“My pleasure, Mr ‘olmes.”

Mycroft hung up. It was comforting to know Sherlock had taken some precautions, though he didn’t really believe the flat was clean. His brother was the kind to sneak something extra away just in case, and however proficient Wiggins was as a chemist he’d never outsmart Sherlock if the detective wanted to keep something from him.

It was fine. Mycroft would be watching him; if the withdrawals got bad enough for him to go to a secret supply, the statesman would be able to stop him and confiscate it. If there was nothing in the flat then it didn’t matter anyway.

He wasn’t sure how long Sherlock would be out of it, but the state of the flat was grating on his nerves. He closed the kitchen doors so he couldn’t see the tornado of paper in the living room, cleared as many of Sherlock’s experiments off the counter as possible and set about making himself some tea.

 

Sherlock woke feeling just as groggy as before. He glared at the clock on his phone. It said four, but he didn’t know if that was am or pm. He wrapped himself in the sheet and shuffled into the kitchen, finding Mycroft bent over a newspaper, his phone on the table beside it.

“Ah, you’re up. How do you feel?”

Sherlock blinked. “Hungry. Any word on Moriarty?”

“They are waiting to see if they can track him down more definitely before launching into anything.”

“Sensible. What time is it?”

“Four in the afternoon. You have been asleep for perhaps twelve hours, though I can’t be sure. Do you feel rested?” he stood, putting the kettle on.

“Not really. I had…weird dreams.”

“I’m not surprised. Come, you should sit down before you fall over. I’ll order from that terrible Chinese place you adore so much.”

Sherlock didn’t move, eyes narrowing. “Why are you still here? I’m fine, Mycroft. I’m not going to relapse.”

“You say that now, but wait for the cravings to get particularly bad.” He tutted.

“I can do withdrawal – I’ve done it before. And I can always call John if you’re so worried. Surely you’ve got more important things to do than babysit me.”

_(I’m not a child anymore.)_

“Not right now, no.”

_(Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.)_

“Really? No pressing elections or revolutions or political scandals?”

“None. You’re stuck with me.”

“Ah, the story of my life.”

“It’s usually me complaining about being stuck with you, actually.”

“Well I suppose you never asked our parents for another brother.”

Mycroft grimaced. “Sherrinford was bad enough.”

Sherlock curled his lip and grunted. “Hmm.”

“So, food?”

The detective shrugged. “As you please.”

He turned and flounced back into his room, creating a nest for himself in the middle of the bed. He could hear Mycroft sighing and picking up his phone. Sherlock burrowed further into his linen, fighting off the jittery feeling in his limbs. He was so exhausted but he couldn’t sleep again, not so soon, and he felt restless in his skin but too tired and weak from days of not eating to actually do anything or go anywhere.

Mycroft’s voice was a quiet murmur through the walls, almost comforting in it low tones. It reminded Sherlock of being young and listening in on the grown-ups’ conversation through the living room door. There were footsteps and then his brother appeared in the doorway, humming unhappily when he saw Sherlock.

“You need to eat.”

“You just ordered. Don’t fret, Mycroft, it’s unattractive on a man of your age.”

“How’s your focus?”

Sherlock looked away, half-shrugging. “It’s shaky. I’m just tired.”

“Alright. Do you want to nap until dinner arrives?”

“I can’t.”

“Do you want me to sit with you again?”

Sherlock licked his lips, brow twitching. He didn’t have the excuse of being high anymore. But Mycroft was here to look after him, right? There was no harm letting him.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft perched on the side of the mattress, hands folded in his lap, and Sherlock closed his eyes against the jagged itching in his bones.

 

He didn’t sleep, but lying still made his body feel a little better even if it drove him crazy. It was twenty minutes before the bell rang and Mycroft went downstairs to pay. Sherlock thought about getting out some plates for all of two seconds before deciding it was much too hard and staying in his blanket cocoon.

“I see we haven’t troubled ourselves to help.” Mycroft chided as he brought the bags into the bedroom.

“I’m an invalid, remember?”

“If you say so.”

“But _you_ seem to think it, so it must be true.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and started setting containers on the bed, Sherlock sitting up eagerly to open the first box. The older Holmes went back into the kitchen and returned with a set of chopsticks and a fork, offering the last to Sherlock.

“I thought you would prefer efficiency to etiquette.”

He gave his brother a scornful look but took it anyway, immediately shovelling fried rice into his mouth. Mycroft sat at the end of the bed, more sedately choosing a container of noodles for himself and holding it under his chin as he ate in delicate bites.

“How is it?” Sherlock snickered.

“Ghastly. But you have your ridiculous theory about what makes good takeaway, so-”

“It’s not ridiculous. It’s true.”

“It may be true for you, but we do not all share your tastes, Sherlock.”

“Thank Christ. I couldn’t handle it if you started playing violin and running about the place.”

Mycroft smiled. “Rest assured, I am not going to cramp your style.”

“Good. Because I can’t pull off ‘pretentious with umbrella’ as well as you.”

Mycroft flicked a bean shoot at him and Sherlock gave a mock-outraged outburst, wriggling further away.

“But seriously, why do you need to carry it? They chauffeur you everywhere. Just leave it in the car.”

“Perhaps there’s more to it than just appearances, Sherlock.” He sniffed.

_(He’s the most dangerous man ~~you’ve ever met~~.)_

“What, concealed blade? Small calibre bullet? Poisoned syringe tip?”

He gave a tight-lipped grin. “Shut up and eat or you might find out.”

Despite his usual reluctance, the withdrawals and his very empty stomach spurred Sherlock on through several dishes, until he flopped back onto the pillows feeling like he might burst.

“Better?”

“Much. It’s made me even sleepier, I think.”

“You should sleep, Sherlock. Get it out of your system.” Mycroft started clearing the empty containers away.

Sherlock nodded, eyes already falling closed. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Of course.”

“Fusspot.”

“Infant.”

“Goodnight, Mikey.”

He paused in the doorway. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

*****

Mycroft woke with a groan, turning over on the couch. He should have snuck upstairs and used John’s old bed, but it had seemed like a bother in the dark. His neck wasn’t thanking him now though. And he was getting sick of sleeping in his clothes – perhaps it was time to ask Anthea to bring him something from home.

He sat up to find Sherlock sitting in his armchair. He’d turned it to face the window, legs resting on the sill, feet tapping anxiously. He was wearing one of his silk dressing gowns, arms folded over his chest as he chewed a thumb.

“Sherly?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you sleep?”

“For a bit.”

“Are you hungry? There’s leftover-”

“No.”

“Perhaps some tea?”

“No.”

He eyed his brother and sighed internally, standing with a wince as his muscles complained. “I take it your cravings are at their worst.”

“I can get through it.”

“I don’t doubt that. But is there something I can do to help?”

“Stop talking.”

“Ah.”

He froze halfway between the couch and the armchair, not sure what to do. Sherlock’s foot never stopped jiggling but he glanced at Mycroft sidelong.

“I just need a distraction.”

“A case?”

“No, can’t concentrate on a case. Something else.”

“Experiments?”

“Don’t talk!”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. If Sherlock couldn’t be distracted intellectually, that left two choices: chemically, which they were trying to avoid, and physically. He needed to get rid of that nervous energy somehow.

Mycroft came closer, not caring that he was breaking the silence rule. “Why don’t we take a little excursion? Find you a good fight to shake out your limbs?”

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft, do I look like I’m in any condition to make it down the stairs, let alone hold my own in a brawl?”

“Then what do you need? What do you usually do to help it pass?”

The brunette suddenly looked guilty, or maybe embarrassed – either way it was an expression Mycroft wasn’t used to seeing. He arched a brow.

“Really?”

_(Sex doesn’t alarm me._

_~~How would you know?~~ _ _)_

Sherlock shrugged. “Basic biochemistry. Engages the nervous system, changes hormone levels in the brain.”

“I suppose Moriarty’s nickname was less accurate than he thought,” Mycroft sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Alright then. Would you prefer to find someone yourself? I can have a very discreet professional here in twenty minutes-”

 

Sherlock rolled his head back with a baleful look, drawling. “Do you pimp for your House of Lords cronies too?”

“You’re a rather special case. But if you want to try and charm someone in your current state, go ahead. I’ll leave you to it.”

He turned towards the door and Sherlock caught his wrist. “No. Stay.”

“Would you like me to call after all? Do you – god help us – have a preference?” he reached into his pocket.

“You.”

Mycroft looked up slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You do it, Mikey.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why? You’re taking such good care of me already. What’s one more duty?”

“You are my little brother, Sherlock.”

“Exactly,” he looked down, voice dropping to a mumble, “I trust you.”

Mycroft inhaled sharply, letting it out again before he responded. “I wouldn’t have thought I was someone you found interesting, after all the weight jibes.”

“I’m not so superficial as all that, Mycroft. Right now I would prefer to deal with someone who will not take advantage of my current vulnerability, and who will not mention it afterwards.”

“Sherlock, you are coming down from cocaine abuse. If I said yes it would be the very definition of taking advantage.”

“I’m the one asking.”

“Sherlock, I can’t. It’s completely immoral, even for you-”

“When have the rules of morality ever applied to us?”

Mycroft sucked in a breath through his teeth and Sherlock shifted onto his knees, turning to fist both hands in Mycroft’s shirt.

“Please, Mycroft. I need it. And you know it won’t change anything between us – we’re above that. It’s only transport.”

_(There’s only so much damage you can do.)_

“I can’t, Sherlock. This…asking me to find you desirable and then follow through on it when there are perfectly safe alternatives – it’s too much.”

“Mycroft, please.”

“It would destroy both our reputations. I am not the only one who keeps an eye on your flat, Sherlock.”

“Please. If I were ever capable of needing someone, it would be you. You’ve always been there for me, and I’ve always whinged about it but…it makes me feel it’s okay to do what I must, because I know you’re never far away.”

Mycroft’s brows drooped. “Sherlock, this isn’t something I can help you with.”

“Why not? It’s only sex, Mycroft. It’s nothing in the scheme of things.”

“That may be true for others but for us, it means rather a lot more.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“You can’t promise that.”

He gently took Sherlock’s wrists in hand and tugged until he let go of Mycroft’s shirt, taking a step back. The detective hung there expectantly for a moment before slumping into the seat.

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t.”

Mycroft bit his cheek. “I can still call someone.”

“No thank you.”

“Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen then.”

Sherlock turned back to the window, fingers drumming on the armrest, and Mycroft let himself through the doors. He closed them behind him and leaned back on the glass. He wanted to help, yes, but there were certain limits. He couldn’t help wean Sherlock off one self-destructive behaviour by indulging something worse. They’d both just have to wait this stage out, and pretend the conversation never happened.

 

Mycroft cradled his head in his hands as the incessant banging in the next room got louder. He’d be more concerned if he hadn’t already confiscated anything vaguely weapon-shaped during his sweep of the flat; as it was, Sherlock was just annoying the crap out of him. The statesman glanced at his phone again but no one had called or messaged in the ten seconds since his last check. There was nothing to do but stare at the green tiles on the wall in front of him and listen to Sherlock’s pounding, whatever it was.

There were footsteps on the stairs and then a disgruntled muttering that got louder as the speaker approached. Mycroft lifted his head as the landlady passed the door.

“Mrs Hudson.”

“Mycroft Holmes, what in heaven’s name is going on in there?” she scowled, “I can hear him downstairs like a bloody metronome.”

“My apologies, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock is going through…a difficult period. He will be better by tonight, I promise.”

“What am I supposed to do until then?”

He raised a brow and took out his wallet fishing out several large bills. “Perhaps you and a companion could go for a late lunch? Somewhere nice.”

“Well…I suppose,” she stepped into the kitchen, tentatively taking the money, “But if he’s damaging things again-”

“I shall take care of it, don’t you worry.”

“Alright. Is he...he’s not ill or anything, is he?”

“No, he shall be quite recovered by the next time you see him.”

She nodded. “Have a good afternoon then, dear.”

She threw another suspicious glance at the living room door and headed back downstairs. Mycroft stood and shook out the front of his shirt. He should make sure his brother wasn’t actually tearing up floorboards or anything. He opened the door and stepped in cautiously.

“Sherlock?”

He was sitting on the coffee table, a moose antler in one hand and a large wooden box in front of him. The detective brought the thick base of the antler down on a specific point in the lid, the wood already cracking and worn away from the previous blows.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Trying to determine the force necessary to break out of a coffin once buried alive.”

“I doubt many corpses carry antlers with them to the grave.”

Sherlock shrugged, still swinging his makeshift hammer. “I needed a substitute for bone. I didn’t think the experiment worth breaking my fingers, though in a realistic setting I doubt anyone fighting to escape asphyxiation would be so cautious.”

“And have you reached a conclusion?”

“Given that I have more space to manoeuvre and create the momentum needed for a successful hit, I doubt anyone would make it through before they suffocated.”

“Well, that’s a cheery result.”

“But I haven’t factored in outliers like physical strength variations and adrenaline-fuelled desperation.”

“Do you feel...any calmer?”

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide and too alert. “Not particularly.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. The moose bashing was technically just a more extreme version of tapping his foot or biting his nails; it was still just a repetitive motion to try and keep himself occupied. He checked his watch. The cravings couldn’t last too much longer, surely.

“I’ll ask again, would you like me to call someone-”

“No. I don’t want one of your ‘helpful’ assistants and I certainly wouldn’t want the taxpayers funding my rehab needs.” He rolled his eyes with blistering sarcasm.

 

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He could see grazes where the antlers had slipped and scratched Sherlock’s hands. His brother was thin, sweating, his eyes bulging in dark puffy circles and his tongue darting out to lick his lips every two seconds. Sherlock started his banging again and the elder Holmes had had enough.

“I’ll do it.”

“What?” he froze, antler midair.

“You clearly need the distraction so I shall provide it. But within limits, Sherlock – my limits, not yours.”

His brother nodded mutely, setting the antler down. Mycroft offered a hand to help him up off the table.

“Let’s move into the bedroom. Wouldn’t do to be disturbed.”

“Poor Mrs Hudson would have a heart attack.” Sherlock chuckled.

The pair made their way down the hall, Mycroft locking the door behind them. Sherlock started to take off his robe and the other man held up a hand.

“Wait. Sit down.”

The detective obeyed, watching as Mycroft did a thorough search for cameras and microphones. He even got on his hands and knees to check under the bed.

“You really think I wouldn’t notice if someone bugged my room?”

“You’re hardly in it.”

“So why would they bother?”

“Sherlock, this is necessary. Now hush.”

He checked all the furniture, the walls, the assorted knick-knacks on Sherlock’s desk until Mycroft was finally satisfied. He stood and brushed the dust off his pants.

“Stay.”

“I’m not a pet.” Sherlock scowled.

“I’m well aware. Good pets are obedient.” Mycroft grumbled, going into the bathroom.

He didn’t expect Sherlock or John to have what he needed, but there was a bottle of honeysuckle-scented lotion left by some former girlfriend (maybe even Janine). He took it back into the bedroom and motioned for Sherlock to take off his robe.

“Lie on your front.”

The other Holmes hurried to comply, fingers shaking slightly as he stripped off and buried his face in the pillows. Mycroft rolled up his sleeves and sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing the lotion into his hands. He placed both palms on Sherlock’s shoulders and swept down, kneading at the tension that was rampant through his muscles.

“What? Mycroft-”

“You wanted touch, I am providing it.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“You underestimate me, brother.”

“Oh no. I never underestimate _you_.”

 

But the detective was silent as Mycroft worked, big hands rubbing smooth paths down his brother’s ivory back, feeling the ribs so close to the surface. He circled his thumbs up and down Sherlock’s neck and down to his collarbones, working his way along the slender man’s spine to the base and then the back of his thighs, his calves. Sherlock twitched and tensed with each new bit of contact, hissing into the mattress as Mycroft found a new knot. The statesman alternated pressure, sometimes hard and solid, sometimes teasingly light over the surface.

It was the most physical they’d been in years. Neither man had time for nonsense like hugs, and since adolescence there’d been a space between them both physically and emotionally. They had become, in those words Mycroft said to John so very long ago, ‘arch-enemies’: not rivals exactly, not malicious, just...opposed. Mycroft pressed his fingertips into the nook at the base of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and he remembered the rare occasions he’d given the younger boy piggy-backs when Sherlock was still very small and innocent. He remembered the nights he’d crawled into Mycroft’s bed because he was scared of the thunder, and the times he’d come running for help against Sherrinford’s tormenting.

“When did we stop being close, Sherlock?”

“I don’t think we ever were.” He mumbled.

But Mycroft remembered it. Perhaps Sherlock had simply been too young; he couldn’t recall a time before all this.

_(Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?)_

He shifted his weight so he could put more onto his hands, working at the pressure points and nerve endings in Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

“Is it any better?”

“It’s...distracting. But the sensations pass.”

Mycroft had to agree. For all his efforts, Sherlock’s muscles didn’t feel any looser. The tension wasn’t shifting. He pinched the back of Sherlock’s arm and the detective made a noise like an offended cat.

“Mycroft!”

“I am redirecting the focus of your nervous system. Did you feel agitated?”

“No, but what are you going to do, keep pinching me until the cravings wear off? Because people will notice if I’m covered in bruises.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time you’d hurt yourself on some foolish experiment.”

“No! I am not consenting to torture. Not after I’ve seen how much you enjoy it.” He sniffed.

“Serbia was all part of the cover, I told you-”

“If you say so, Mikey.”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, hands stilling on the small of Sherlock’s back. He’d hoped the massage would be enough, that it would calm Sherlock and he wouldn’t have to progress to anything untoward. But clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Alright. Turn over.”

The brunette wriggled onto his back, moving up to rest against the pillows with Mycroft’s prodding. He took a deep breath and considered the other man. Sherlock was watching anxiously, lips parted in anticipation. He looked even thinner from the front but Mycroft could see where there was usually more muscle on his arms, and the added gauntness in his face only highlighted the sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw. He wasn’t entirely unattractive, as far as that sort of thing went. He was just Mycroft’s brother.

Sherlock wasn’t hard, and Mycroft cursed internally. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. But he was confident in his abilities, and he was used to ducking his head and getting down to business. He could do this, and do it fast.

“Sherlock, I’m going to touch you. Do you understand?”

He rolled his eyes. “Are you really asking for explicit consent? I’m not going to cry foul play later, Mycroft.”

“Do you understand? I mean it Sherlock – are you prepared for any and all consequences of this encounter?”

He nodded. “Yes. Please Mycroft, I need it.”

“Very well.”

Mycroft opened the lotion and squeezed a little more into his palm. He closed his fingers around the flaccid shaft, wishing he could shut his eyes and pretend it wasn’t Sherlock. But he needed to be able to see his brother’s reactions to find what worked for him, and since he figured the detective was going to need a little more than most people, every piece of data was essential.

The older man stroked upwards, running his thumb over the head and down the ridge underneath, brushing against the bristly curls below. He tightened his grip and Sherlock gave a small gasp, biting his lip.

“Yes?” Mycroft raised a brow.

The brunette nodded stiffly and Mycroft squeezed again, firmly but not enough to hurt. Sherlock shifted his shoulders, moving his feet flat on the mattress. Mycroft jerked his hand a bit roughly and he groaned low in his throat, cutting it off abruptly.

It was a strange picture really, the statesman in his collared shirt and (formerly) starched trousers sitting next to the stark naked waif, cock rapidly turning a dark pink in his hand. Anyone who didn’t know them might paint Sherlock as some sort of rent boy, with Mycroft as the dirty old client. It was frightening to think that might have been the situation Sherlock found himself in if his brother hadn’t been there every time his addiction got too much.

He started a series of long, slow tugs that started tight at the base and tapered off over the sensitive head, Sherlock stiffening under his touch until finally he stood erect, pearly white pre-cum slick under Mycroft’s fingers. The younger man tipped his head back, pressing his pelvis up a little to drive himself into Mycroft’s grip. He wasn’t twitching so much, wasn’t looking around distractedly: his eyes were glued to Mycroft’s face. It was good to know the contact was helping, if a little discomforting to see his brother wasn’t making any attempt to disassociate himself from who was providing it.

 

Mycroft kept up the rhythm he’d established, occasionally adding a twist to his strokes or pausing to give the head more attention. Sherlock was weeping freely now, cool and slippery, and Mycroft used it to speed up his movements. The man’s chest was heaving slightly as he bucked up, nails clawing at the sheets. This wasn’t so bad. Sherlock had responded much more readily than Mycroft expected, and seemed to be maintaining interest; they should have the whole thing finished within a minute or two.

And then Sherlock surged forward and kissed him.

Mycroft stopped for a moment, surprised. Sherlock dug his fingers into his brother’s hair, lips pressing against his desperately, gently rocking into the now-slack grip on his member. Mycroft recovered, shoving a hand against Sherlock’s chest. The detective blinked at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, breath coming slightly too fast.

“What?”

“We’re not lovers, Sherlock. You agreed to stay within my limits.”

“Please, Mikey. It’s so much better that way.”

“This is about sating a need – _your_ need. I don’t feel comfortable being any more involved than I have to be.”

“Well it’s not enough. I need more.”

Mycroft pressed his thumb to his forehead, the other hand still loosely curled around Sherlock. The other man throbbed under his touch, fingers tangled in Mycroft’s curls.

“I see no reason you can’t settle for this.” He said quietly.

“Please.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. I’ll help you.”

“I’m supposed to be helping you.” He protested, but Sherlock was already kissing him again. His hand trailed down Mycroft’s stomach to close over the hand on his dick, encouraging him to continue, and helplessly the older man complied.

Sherlock’s kisses were insistent, pleading. Mycroft returned them with a slow consideration, and when Sherlock’s tongue sought entrance he granted it. His thumb caught on the slit and Sherlock hissed, moaning into his mouth. Mycroft felt an unwelcome flood of arousal at the sound, the feel of it against his tongue. He sped up, cupping the back of Sherlock’s head in his free hand to deepen the kiss.

He was so focused on the tempo of his hand and the synchronised movement of their mouths he didn’t immediately notice Sherlock’s hands had left his head. They migrated down his chest, undoing the buttons carefully until both palms lay flush against his skin. Sherlock felt cool, slightly clammy with sweat but not unpleasantly so. A hand slipped lower, brushing curiously against Mycroft’s groin, and he jerked forward with a gasp.

“Sherlock-”

“Shh. What did I say about talking?”

The hand returned, much firmer this time, and Mycroft’s eyes screwed up. Sherlock thrust into his hold and drew in a shaky breath right next to his ear, and Mycroft felt himself twitch with interest.

 

Sherlock reached for his trousers, opening the clasps and zip until he could get a hand in. At the first touch of skin on his shaft Mycroft clutched Sherlock’s shoulder. He opened his mouth to object and Sherlock snaked his tongue in instead, grip tightening.

“Relax, Mikey. You’re helping me, that’s all. Just relax.”

He didn’t want to. He knew this was rapidly getting out of hand; he’d only consented because he thought he could control it, but Mycroft should have known by now there was no containing Sherlock.

“I promise this will go much easier for both of us if you switch off that brain and stop overthinking.”

“Oh? Is that something you claim to have some expertise in?”

“No,” Sherlock met his eyes, “That’s why we’re in this mess.”

Mycroft took a breath. He ran the country behind closed doors: he could manage this. They were past the point of playing shy about it – after all, they had their hands on each other, fumbling about and snogging like teenagers. It couldn’t get any worse.

“Alright. I’ll try.” He nodded reluctantly.

Sherlock smiled and kissed him, and Mycroft really leaned into it this time. He resumed his firm tugs on Sherlock’s length, lips parting involuntarily as those long violinist’s fingers slid over his cock. Whatever experience his brother had, he’d clearly hadn’t spent much time on this, but Sherlock’s enthusiasm made up for his awkwardness. His kisses were like falling from a very high place, the ground rushing towards Mycroft’s face, and he wondered if this is what the other Holmes felt when he jumped.

He closed his eyes and focused only on Sherlock’s body as an objective thing. His skin was soft, smooth, unused to sun or hard work or cold winds. His hair smelt like sweat, a clean soap scent lingering from a previous shower. He was lean, too skinny but it only made his limbs seem longer. It felt like he might break in Mycroft’s hands, a prospect he found terrifying as a brother and somewhat appealing at the same time. Some primal, possessive part of Mycroft’s brain wondered how much pressure he’d have to use to raise bruises over that ivory flesh. Would anybody see them? Would they guess how they got there?

Sherlock’s clumsy strokes combined with his furious kisses, his roaming caresses, and Mycroft’s own long-ignored hunger to get the statesman fully swollen and throbbing gently in the brunette’s hand. He groaned into Sherlock’s mouth, thrusting faster as his own grip sped up. The other man gasped and pressed a hand solidly against Mycroft’s chest, only just managing to push him away.

“Don’t – not yet. I need more.”

Mycroft was past protesting. He nodded, licking his lips, and patted Sherlock’s hip as he let go and stood. The detective turned over onto his hands and knees as Mycroft let his clothes fall away, looking around.

“I don’t suppose you have the proper necessities for this?”

“Top drawer.” Sherlock jerked his head.

Mycroft opened it and took out the condom box, raising a brow at his brother.

“I borrowed them from John for an experiment.”

“And somehow forget them in here? Tell me, was your jealousy always so obvious or were you occasionally nice to his girlfriends?”

Sherlock huffed, squirming slightly. “Shut up and get on with it, Mikey.”

 

The older Holmes rolled his eyes but put the condom on and climbed onto the bed behind Sherlock. He knelt between the other man’s pale legs, grabbing the lotion from the bedside table and slicking his fingers. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s hip to steady him and swept one fingertip over his entrance, the brunette shuddering with a hiss of anticipation. Mycroft carefully watched the line of his shoulders for any discomfort as he slid the first half in, pausing at the knuckle as Sherlock stretched around him.

“Alright?”

“Yes,” he said breathily, “More, more. Don’t be so safe about things all the time.”

Mycroft stuck out his lip but pushed further, wriggling to buy himself more space. He’d barely gotten all the way in before Sherlock was looking over his shoulder impatiently.

“Another.”

“Give yourself a moment, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need a moment, I need more.”

“Isn’t that your whole problem?” Mycroft muttered, but pumped his finger a few times before adding a second, starting the slow invasion all over again.

Sherlock gripped the sheets hard and pushed backwards, mouth falling open in a silent moan. The skin between his brows crinkled as he tensed and Mycroft had to admit it was beautiful. He thrust a bit deeper, just a touch too fast, and Sherlock let out a cry in those lovely low musical tones.

“More.”

Mycroft thought Sherlock might be like a great sea serpent, poised on the edge of the world waiting to devour it. He understood everything in theory and almost nothing in practice, and he was never satisfied. Would even this be enough? Were his efforts, his sacrifices nothing more than temporary relief?

Of course they were – why was he even thinking such maudlin, trite things? Did he really think he could fix Sherlock once and for all? This was not a fairy tale where the prince kissed the sleeping maiden and they lived happily ever after. This was a horror story, a tragedy. It didn’t have an ending.

He stroked a hand tenderly over the base of Sherlock’s spine, willing him to be calm as his other hand worked to stretch the brunette open. The sight of the smaller man waiting needily, submissively, gorgeous and willing...Mycroft would have to be made of stone to resist that. He rubbed the tip of his cock against the back of Sherlock’s thigh as he forced himself to draw out the preparations instead of rushing like he wanted to.

“For God’s sake Mycroft, stop fooling about and fuck me!”

He paused, crooking his fingers hard against Sherlock’s prostate. The other man whined, head falling forward as his whole body drooped with pleasure.

“You will wait, in silence, until I am ready for you.”

“Sadistic bastard.”

“Silence, Sherlock.” He jammed his fingers against it again, making the younger Holmes yelp as his back arched.

 

He grit his teeth and hissed but didn’t speak again as Mycroft pumped his fingers quickly, adding another as he got more eager to feel that slick warmth around himself. Sherlock’s arms shook as he brushed his prostate, but it was only incidental and not enough pressure to draw more than a bitten lip and the tiniest grunt from the back of his throat.

Mycroft spread his fingers, swirling to make sure the walls were as relaxed as possible. He took himself in hand with a wince at the contact and shuffled forward on his knees. Sherlock let out a sigh of possibly relief and Mycroft paused.

_(Even at the eleventh hour it’s not too late.)_

“Mikey?” Sherlock looked over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, brow furrowed and lips swollen from where he’d been gnawing at them.

Mycroft’s doubts evaporated. “Apologies.”

He pressed forward, head slowly breaching Sherlock’s entrance. The brunette rolled his hips back with a growl, Mycroft’s eyes squeezing shut as impossibly tight muscles closed around him, Sherlock’s passage fluttering as he eased his way in. Mycroft hit bottom and they both gasped, Sherlock resting his weight back against his brother.

“Oooooh. Yes.”

Mycroft could feel the change in Sherlock, the way his focus honed in on one sensation. His limbs were shaking much less, tensed against the older Holmes’ bulk. His breathing was fast but not the shallow hyperventilating it had been before. He was waiting, head down and quiet, caught in a strange place between restlessness and lust and calm.

As for Mycroft, he was almost overwhelmed. He hadn’t had time for sex in so long and now Sherlock was all around him like a vice, hotter than he remembered it and painfully good. Mycroft took a beat to collect himself and placed one hand on Sherlock’s waist, holding him still as he thrust. The detective moaned and writhed under Mycroft’s hand, hips twitching from side to side. He tried to push back to meet him, shoulders rolling forward as Mycroft slammed flush against the thinner man. The long stretch of bare creamy skin in front of him was like a blank canvas, ribs too prominent, vertebrae just visible. Mycroft pumped his hips harder, losing himself in the tight depths of Sherlock’s passage.

Sherlock cried out, hands fisting in the sheets, and Mycroft paused.

“Are you al-”

“For the love of all that is holy, don’t stop.”

His voice was broken, raspy with desire. Mycroft felt a momentary wave of pride that he’d done that, and to his notoriously asexual brother no less. He wasn’t young or fit or terribly attractive, at least not like Sherlock, but he was good at everything he decided to do and this was no exception. Sherlock moaned again and Mycroft wanted to see it, wanted the proof of how good he was. He pulled out roughly and pushed the other man onto his side before the brunette could complain, forcing Sherlock onto his back.

The elder Holmes paused, hovering over his brother. Sherlock’s chest and face were flushed, his pupils blown. His breathing was fast and kept catching in his throat. Mycroft knew if he reached out and placed his fingers on that exposed neck, he’d feel Sherlock’s heart racing.

_(Incredibly simple and very destructive.)_

He growled and tugged the detective closer by his thighs, lining himself up and slipping back in. Mycroft bent his head as Sherlock grabbed the back of his neck, his other hand scraping over the other man’s shoulders in scratches he probably didn’t even intend.

 

Sherlock looked exactly as vulnerable as Mycroft had always thought him in that moment, staring up with his mouth ajar and his eyes fixed on his brother helplessly. He wanted to hold him down; he wanted to see what it would take to make Sherlock fall apart. Not break – Mycroft didn’t want to hurt him – but fall, give up parts of him he never showed anyone else. Mycroft wanted to own those secret places in Sherlock’s head.

He slid his hands up the mattress and under Sherlock’s arms, bracing himself as he plunged into the brunette. Sherlock clung harder, wrapping his legs around Mycroft’s waist as he tilted himself up, until his own slick erection was caught between them. The younger man’s mouth opened and closed as if he was trying to say something and desperately holding it in, knees pressing against Mycroft’s ribs. He moaned low in his throat as he arched up to meet each thrust, the angle forcing his muscles tighter around Mycroft’s shaft.

“Mikey.”

“Yes,” he hissed, gripping Sherlock’s hips tighter, “Tell me.”

“Please,” he panted, “Please.”

“ _Tell me_.”

“I need it, I need you.”

He lifted Sherlock’s hips and drove himself harder, their thighs slapping together with a heavy, wet thud, his curly head flopping around with the force. Mycroft’s nails bit into his skin and Sherlock howled, a hand barely brushing over his swollen head before he was coming with a wide-eyed gasp.

Mycroft almost froze, awed at the expression on his brother’s face. It was if Sherlock was young again, before the perpetual sneer of adolescence that he’d never seemed to grow out of, before they ‘hated’ each other. He was staring up at Mycroft like he had the answers to every puzzle in the universe, mouth twitching and fingers straining as they clutched at the elder Holmes’ arms.

Then his passage clenched down and Mycroft was thrown out of his reverie. He grunted, speeding up again. His brain was screaming that there was no reason to continue, no vague excuses now Sherlock had finished, but he was so close and there was no one there but them, and why shouldn’t he take what he wanted for a moment – just one?

Because _he_ would always know.

Because Mycroft and Sherlock would always remember his weakness.

“Mikey,” he gasped, shoulders shuddering, and it was too late.

“Sherlock!” he wheezed out.

_(Who needs me this time?)_

Mycroft’s eyes clamped shut as he emptied himself into the other man, but it didn’t help.

*****

There was a long pause. If Mycroft was pressed later, he might have hypothesised that Sherlock was actually unconscious, that the shock had been too much for his already strained nervous system. At the time he was just grateful no one was talking or moving, because the contents of his head was rushing about like commuters at a Tube station.

There was horror, and shame, and deep regret and humiliation and a feeling he was someone he didn’t recognise. There was wonder at Sherlock’s beauty, and disgust that he could even call it that. There was mild panic that someone, somewhere, would know. There was an awful emptiness that he might never be able to be alone with his brother again – and surprisingly, at least half of that was an aching thought that they’d never have a repeat performance.

He couldn’t deal with this, not while he was still buried inside Sherlock, not while their arms were still loosely fastened around each other. Mycroft slid out as gently as possible, sitting up. He disposed of the condom with all the concentration and care he was famous for, just so he didn’t have to meet his brother’s gaze. The statesman went into the bathroom and wet a cloth to clean himself before taking another to Sherlock.

The detective was lying on his side facing the far wall, sheets drawn up over his hip. His gaze was a bit dreamy but certainly not as haunted as Mycroft was expecting, and he reluctantly took the washcloth when it was thrust under his nose.

Mycroft dressed quickly, as if hiding it under a layer of clothes would erase it from their collective memory, or at least make it seem further away. He sat on the edge of the bed to fasten his cuffs and waistcoat, sliding on his jacket. He adjusted the lapels, shifting uneasily. He didn’t turn around, voice very soft as he spoke.

“I shall be better, in future.”

Sherlock didn’t move or even look at him as he replied. “You were wonderful.”

Mycroft bit his lip as if stricken and stood, heading for the door. “I trust you are well enough now to be alone?”

“And if I asked you to stay?”

“Please don’t.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Mikey.”

“It might as well be.”

Sherlock twisted his head over his shoulder, the movement making Mycroft finally look at him. “Do you really think that?”

“I don’t know anymore.” He didn’t know what anything meant anymore.

Sherlock stood, clutching the sheets around himself loosely, and came all the way over to where Mycroft stood like a statue. He slowly reached up and touched the tips of his fingers to Mycroft’s cheek, leaning in to kiss him.

“You’re not so bad as all that, brother mine.”

“How can you say that, after…”

Sherlock smoothed his thumb over the wrinkles in Mycroft’s brow. “We’re special, you and I. Why should this be any different?”

Mycroft felt like he couldn’t breathe around the lump in his throat. He took a step back, just enough to break the contact. “I should get going. I’ve been away from the office far too long.”

He took another few steps down the hall until Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“Will you come back?”

The older man licked his lips, eyes on the door, and nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

The answer lingered on his tongue like a bad taste, but there was a satisfied hum behind him and when he turned to look, Sherlock was smiling. Mycroft hurried to the stairs, not even bothering to call for his car. He hailed a cab instead, hopping in the first one he saw and barking out his address. It wasn’t until they’d gotten a few streets away he realised he’d forgotten his umbrella. There was no point going back now, making the cabbie wait, having the awkward conversation with Sherlock about his post-coital forgetfulness.

He’d just have to collect it on his next visit.

 


End file.
